


A Missing City

by KyberHearts



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars
Genre: Everybody Lives, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 14:49:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10538694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/KyberHearts
Summary: A short piece about finding comfort after loss.Chirrut Îmwe and Baze Malbus grieve together for their city NiJedha.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookwormally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookwormally/gifts).



The cigarette dangles from Chirrut Îmwe’s long, calloused fingers. The smoke dances around him, its addictive smell and gritty touch warming him amidst the chaos and noise of the marketplace. In his other hand he cradles a worn clay bowl that sings for pity. By the sound of the coins rattling against the sides, today is a good day for begging.

The temperature begins to drop and Chirrut shifts his weight back on his elbows. He listens to the Jedha people change and move: for some, they retreat to their beds and empty stomachs. For others, they emerge from the shadows and gossip and drink. The stream of soldiers is the only incessant motif in the city of NiJedha. Chirrut hears how the troopers’ gloves tighten around their weapons, and the grating of their helmets as their vision sweeps left and right, always expecting trouble, always expecting a rebellion. They hardly give a second glance to the blue-eyed, blind beggar sitting and smoking his last cigarette.

The staff that lies across Chirrut’s lap begins to vibrate as its kyber crystal counterpart nears. Chirrut raises his head slightly, and Baze Malbus takes a seat next to Chirrut on the stone stairs. “Don’t you know that the smokes will do your body harm?” he huffs.

Chirrut raises his eyebrows, places the cigarette between his lips, and takes a long drag. “You don’t say?” he teases as the cloud seeps through his white smile. He feels Baze recoil from the fumes, and Chirrut laughs. “ _ Relax _ , Baze. I am attuned to my health.”

He places a smoky kiss on Baze’s lips.

“Chirrut.”

“Yes, Baze?”

“Chirrut!”

Baze’s lips aren’t moving. Chirrut frowns. What is this?

“Chirrut, wake up!”

His blue eyes fly open, unseeing, panicking, and Chirrut nearly rolls out of Baze’s grip. The action ignites pain down Chirrut’s spine and he nearly screams. The beared man quickly quiets him, readjusting the breathing mask around Chirrut’s bleeding nose and mouth. “Chirrut, thank the gods. Don’t move. You’re safe now, you’re safe. How do you feel?”

Chirrut’s breathing comes fast and pained. He blinks, feeling tears creep along his cheeks.

He croaks, “Baze?”

“We did it. We made it off Scarif.” Baze’s voice is ragged, too, but full of relief.

_ Scarif _ . The paradise planet, the place with ocean breezes and unending gunfire. Chirrut remembers… he remembers being on the beach front. He remembers seeing machines soar and stomp towards the rogue squadron. He remembers walking towards a lever, pushing it, and then… there was so much smoke, there was so much smoke-

Chirrut coughs and retches, trying to get the taste of fire and sand out of his mouth. He nearly knocks his mask off again. Baze holds him tightly. The world around them groans and shakes, and Baze yells at someone unseen: “Fly steady! We’ve got wounded people back here!” The plane seems to level slightly, and Baze leans over Chirrut. “Stay awake, Chirrut.” His dark brown eyes search for any response in Chirrut’s face.

“It’s over?” Chirrut asks softly. He is crying.

“Yeah,” Baze wipes away the blind man’s tears. “It’s over.”

 

Baze pours over the holographic morning news on a tablet. As his weathered hands work at braiding his unruly locks away from his face, he scans an article about Mon Mothma’s stance on the aftermath of Scarif events.

_ A team of Alliance rebels with the help of defected Imperial pilot Bodhi Rook traveled to Scarif of the Abrion sector with the intention of finding a crucial instrument for countering the new threat that the Death Star poses. Jyn Erso and Rogue One displayed immense courage and determination against Scarif forces. The Rebel Fleet arrived at the scene and aided in the destruction of Scarif’s renown planetary defense system in compliance with Rogue One’s orders. _

He decides not to read any more. Before he powers down the tablet, Baze gives into the curious whispers in his head and summons a map of the galaxy. He sees constellations dance around multicolored planets, including the one he resides on presently, and then he sees the small desert moon known as Jedha. Baze enters the name of the city: NiJedha.

>>Error: Location NIJEDHA not found

>>Suggested: Location NIJEDHA RUINS (1 result)

Baze feels his stomach churn and he waves away the holographs. So it seems that his city has become relics. He chases the thoughts away. A lot of things are different, but not everything.  The worn, Jedha-born guardian stretches his back and lets out a loud groan. Sharing a bed intended for one meant that Baze had to sleep creatively and often in awkward positions. The aches are worth it, though. And the reason walks through the doorway, holding a tray of porcelain cups and a teapot.

Baze nullifies the urge to stand and help Chirrut by reminding himself that the blind man insists on making tea every day without help. The apartment that they currently reside in is small and manageable enough for Chirrut to walk around without the use of his staff.

“How did you like Mon Mothma’s article?” Chirrut asks amusedly and sets down the tray on their rented, surprisingly sturdy table.

His partner doesn’t bother asking how Chirrut knew he’d been reading that specific article. Baze clears his throat and says, “She avoided talking about how Rogue One was, actually, rogue.”

“By the Alliance’s eyes, they would have never approved our mission.” Chirrut finds his seat and sits down. He seeks out the piping hot teapot and confidently pours out tea into their cups. “It was suicidal. It was sheer luck that we’re alive.”

“Sheer luck and Bodhi Rook,” Baze chuckles, recalling the brave cargo pilot’s quick thinking and leadership that managed to direct Rogue One survivors to a rescue ship. From the moment Baze had met the defected Rook, neither had wholly trusted the other with their life. The events on Scarif had changed everyone, for the better and the worse.

Chirrut sips his tea. “Have you finished arranging transportation for the memorial?” Later that weekend, Chirrut and Baze were to attend a ceremony honoring the Holy City. It was to be quiet, well attended, and closure for Jedha natives. Many had relatives in the Holy City. Bodhi was expected to make an appearance as well.

Baze hesitates, his own cup about to touch his lips. “I have to talk to you about that.”

“What is it?”

“The news is not official, but… they want to cancel the ceremony. Postpone it until after the Alliance wins the war. More than likely, the news will break this evening.” Baze studies Chirrut’s face. The blind man slowly sets down his tea. When he speaks, his words bite.

“Who ordered  _ this _ ?”

“Senators. Governors.” Baze adds a little later, “Mon Mothma.”

“ _ Why? _ ”

Baze could not remember a time when Chirrut’s clouded, blue gaze was filled with so much anger as now. He tries to ease some reassurance, some calm into his voice as he answers. “It’s all politics. You know that those who survived NiJedha are angry with both the Empire and the Alliance. There could be riots. Unwanted publicity that could smear the image of the Alliance.”

“They’re concerned about saving face?” Chirrut’s jaw clenches. He’s trying very hard to contain his rage. He seems to be failing. Suddenly Chirrut is back in Baze’s arms, surrounded by screams and smoke, the thick latter which fills his lungs until he can no longer respond to his lover’s question:  _ How do you feel? _

The blind man stands abruptly.

“Excuse me,” he whispers hoarsely and tries to move away from the table. In doing so, his hand accidentally knocks into his teacup and sends the dark drink streaking across the tabletop. The cup rolls off the edge before either of them could catch it and shatters.

“Shit. Don’t move, Chirrut,” Baze orders. Chirrut slowly sinks back into his chair. He can hear the tea steadily dripping from the table. The noise is almost rhythmic. He hears Baze scramble around the closet in the other room for a broom that doesn’t exist. Chirrut senses how the Force moves amidst their shared apartment. It is like the broken teacup; fragmented, unsure of whether it can fit together again.

He sees that Baze controls how the Force influences him. From devoted guardian to heretic to a veteran with faith once more, the long haired man understands that believing in the Force is a conversation. He asks, and the Force answers. This is different for Chirrut. It always has been. Chirrut is a messenger; he has always been. It was never his place to demand favors from the Force.

Chirrut has no idea how to ask for help.

His hands curl in his lap. Then they shoot across the table to Baze’s half-empty teacup, and he hurls the cup at the wall. The sound pierces the room, but not as loudly as the screams in NiJedha. Chirrut picks up the teapot and ignores the scalding sensation against his callused hands and raises it above his head to smash it-

Baze seizes his wrists. His breath washes over Chirrut’s face. “You’re crying.” The tears carve the sorrow in his face, and so they stain his temple robes instead of the polished floor. Baze pries the teapot out of Chirrut’s hands and quickly drops it on the table. “Fuck! Did you burn yourself?”

“I miss NiJedha,” Chirrut tells him dully. “It was our home, Baze. Don’t you miss it?”

Baze stares at him. “How can you ask me that?” He drops down to his knees, thick cargo trousers protecting his skin from the shards, and take Chirrut’s cold hands. “Of course I miss it. It was my home. It was  _ our  _ home.”

“It will always be our home.” Chirrut says tearfully. “Perhaps we should’ve died alongside it-”

Then Baze’s grip tightens. Painfully. “Don’t you dare say that,” Baze croaks.

“But-”

“Jedha may have been our home, Chirrut, but you are my  _ life _ .” Baze kisses Chirrut tenderly, cupping his face, brushing the tears away from his starry blue eyes. The anger in him dissolves into anguish. He throws his arms around Baze and hugs his lover tightly, crying into his shoulder, crying for NiJedha.  
  


The cancellation of the mourning for Jedha becomes public, though quietly, in the late evening. Neither Chirrut nor Baze are available to read the senators’ rationale for removing the event. They are instead on a vehicle that resembles a landspeeder, one that merchants use to travel the vast desert, and headed to the uninhabited forest that lies on the outskirts of the urban setting.

They see that Bodhi Rook is waiting for them, with a few more familiar faces. Chirrut and Baze greet their friends warmly. Jyn Erso and Cassian Andor are dressed in civilian clothes, a sight to behold for the weary. Even with K-2SO, who lumbers with a new silver leg, the company tonight is undeniably human. It is filled with grief and sadness and hope and love.

All the attention is on the Jedha-born: Chirrut, Baze, and Bodhi. The guardians wear black ceremonial robes while Bodhi dons a black sweater and pants. They say little, except to thank their friends for their thoughts and the promise to keep remembering their home planet. None of them cry. They have given their share of tears. Their private ceremony lasts but an hour.

Just when Bodhi heads back to his own transport, Chirrut gifts him with a small package. Even Baze is surprised. “What is it?” Bodhi asks as he begins to unwrap the paper and string. His eyes widen. Trembling, he takes the present and studies it in his palm: a small, shimmering kyber crystal. 

“It’s a bit of home,” Chirrut says, and takes Baze’s hand. “To carry with you wherever you go.”


End file.
